Boxes
by ConfuzzledAtLife
Summary: Ponyboy never knew how much Soda disliked school. Oneshot.


**A/N**: Caution: slightly depressing fic. Written in the middle of the night when I cannot contain my thoughts. This _is _a serious issue in here and it affects far more kids than you'd think.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing.

X X X X

If someone asked you to describe yourself, you wouldn't tell them how tall you were, the colour of your eyes, of your hair. You wouldn't tell them about your family or your job, or what grades you got. Your answer would be simple: "I'm a splat."

You'd say it laughing, and then you'd grin some more at the look of confusion upon their face. You didn't mean splat like they were thinking. You didn't mean splat like the way a fly explodes when you swat it. You meant you were a splash of paint upon a canvas: bright and far reaching, with no regrets. That was what you were, and no one could take it from you. But they tried. And it hurt.

Your brothers liked school. They were built for it. They fit into the boxes. You didn't fit. There was no splat shaped box at school. At first you tried to fit. You wanted to make your teachers and parents proud. But you couldn't. Splats were not symmetrical, and you couldn't fold yourself to fit.

You were confused at first. You didn't know why you were such a failure. They always promised you that if you tried your best you'd succeed. But you never did, and after a while you got sick of trying. You didn't enjoy it anyway.

That was before you realized you were a splat. That was when you thought everyone was the same. But you soon learned. You learned that adults were different from children, that Socs were different from greasers. And you learned that people were different. You were different, and it wasn't your fault any longer.

You became happier then. You were different, you were special. It didn't matter what others thought; it mattered how you felt. You hung out with your gang and you got along with your parents. Life was sweet for the most part.

But then Sunday night would come, and you were overcome with an unexplainable feeling of dread. Soon you stopped sleeping. You'd lie awake, worrying over things that never bothered you at any time other than Sunday night. You didn't know why you felt this way. When you stopped being able to stomach dinner, you grew worried. When you started vomiting, you knew you had a problem.

It took you a while to realize what your problem was. Following Sunday night came Monday morning. You would have to go to school. You realized they were taking a pair of scissors and trying to cut your splat into a shape that could fit one of their boxes. But you were too strong; you couldn't be cut. But they would try, and it would hurt, _God _it would hurt.

You knew they shouldn't make you sit still. You weren't made to sit still. If you moved too much, you would get into trouble. They'd force you. And you knew you shouldn't be forced to do _anything _against your will. That was why you knew not to force yourself on girls.

You'd ask if you could go to the bathroom. And they didn't just say no; they'd frown upon you asking. They said you should have planned better and gone in your designated break time. And you'd be forced to sit still again. Your mind wandered, and you wondered what might happen if you told them your parents wouldn't let you go to the bathroom at home, that they would make you sit still and watch the news or something for hours, torturing you almost. You knew what would happen. They would send in social services, because that was abuse, and you'd become a ward of the state. The state protected you from your parents, and yet at the same time they would force you to endure the exact same type of abuse from their own institutions – their schools.

And it wasn't just that. You'd ask if you could get some food. You were growing; you needed to eat regularly. They said no, and you wondered what might happen if you told them your parents starved you. Soon you stopped wanting food. You felt too sick.

You'd ask them if you could quickly run back to your locker and grab your jacket, because summertime was leaving and the cold winter was coming. They'd say no, say that you could wait, say that you didn't need your jacket; you were just trying to truant class. But you weren't. You had just been outside exercising, and now you were being forced to sit still, and so you were suddenly cold. You wondered what would happen if you told them your parents took your blankets at night and forced you to sleep in a thin shirt and jeans. You would be taken away. You would be protected, because your parents were abusing you. You were an abused child, but it wasn't from your domestic setting. They were torturing you, denying you your basic needs while they themselves were allowed them. They were taking scissors to your soul, trying to make you fit. But you were too strong. You resisted. But not without casualties.

Sometimes you couldn't even hang out with your gang at lunch. You felt too sick. You would spend your lunchtime in the bathroom, sometimes throwing up, sometimes just crying. You didn't know why you felt so sick. Your buddy Steve didn't fit either, but he could cope.

You told him once how you felt. At first he thought you were joking, but then you started crying again, and he knew you were serious. He didn't know why you felt this way either. He said he just ignored them when they did something bad.

Deep down you knew it was silly. You were one of the lucky ones. You didn't have Johnny's parents, you didn't live wherever you could like Dallas. But it was hard to remember that as they yelled at you, telling you to stop being so lazy and do some homework. Then, you just wanted to cry. Again. You cried a lot these days.

You had a test once. You had to analyze a poem. And you knew what the poet meant, so you wrote. You wrote that the poet wondered why, in the midst of poverty, disease and war, he was still forced to keep to the rules of society – he was forced to _ignore _it. You had to write about how it could be applied in a modern setting, and you knew. You wrote that you should not be stuck in a classroom deconstructing poetry. You wrote that there was no point if you had not even been taught how to write a poem yet. You didn't see the point of deconstructing – _destroying _– literature when you didn't know how to construct it. Because you didn't. And it wasn't your fault. And when you got it back, you saw that you had failed once again. You hadn't listened in class. You hadn't prepared. You didn't have a clue about poetry. And they were right – you didn't. Except this time. Just this once, you had known what you were talking about.

You had told your mother one Sunday night when she caught you throwing up in the bathroom. You had told her how you felt. She couldn't understand it – who would? – but she still tried. It was better than what they did for you. She taught you how to relax, and it worked to some extent. But then you'd go there again, and all her hard work would be destroyed, along with your own.

You became pale. You had dark rings under your eyes from not sleeping, and you only kept up your weight by eating once you got home from school; it was the only time you could stomach food. You began shaking once you entered a classroom, and you felt like a huge target was painted on your back. Steve helped. You took all the same classes, and he kept you going. You couldn't tell anyone else in the gang. Dally would think you were pathetic, Two-Bit would laugh at you, Johnny had enough problems of his own and your brothers just wouldn't get it. They knew you hated school. But they didn't know how far it had gone.

A teacher asked you to stay back one day. Steve looked at you apologetically and left, and you were alone. Silence had hung for a moment before he started talking. He said you were bright, but you were one of the laziest students he had ever taught. You didn't know how to apply yourself and you were never going to achieve your goals with your current attitude. But you were bright. You could change.

But you didn't want to be bright. You wanted to be called stupid. If you were stupid, it wasn't your fault you couldn't get a pass mark. But if you were bright, it _was _your fault. You were lazy, and that was a thousand times worse than being dumb.

You walked out in the middle of his sentence, and Steve had been waiting for you outside. You said nothing to him. You didn't even pause. You headed straight for the bathroom and, again, tried to throw up in the toilet. But there was nothing but liquid; you hadn't eaten since yesterday. Steve rubbed your back and told you maybe you should consider dropping out.

But then the final bell would ring, and your spirits would soar. They could no longer hold you. They couldn't try and cut you to fit. Your vibrant personality, your "splat" returned, and you would head home with new optimism. You would suddenly be hungry, and maybe you would go dancing with Sandy on the weekend. You wanted to live your life, because that was you. You couldn't live it sitting still.

X X X X

**A/N**: Reviews are always appreciated.


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